"An ounce of practice is worth more than a ton of preaching"
-Gandhi
I've been writing stories and poetry since I was in the second grade. This was around the time when I was taken from foster home and put into another. I was to live with a new family, to see if they'd bee the family to adopt me finally. I understood that my birth mom couldn't take care of me and stuff like that, but never understood why I felt so angry with her. When I started really getting into my writing, my mix feelings started slowly simmering down and getting better. My stories and writing help me cope with stuff that messes with my emotions and my mind. I write about things that bother me and things that make me happy. I write about people an I write about imaginary things. They have helped me through my childhood confusion and into my teen years, making me understand things a lot better. Writing to me is like a surf board to the surfer. The surfer needs their board in order to surf. I need writing in order to live.
There was a contest at my school called Young Authors. You could to write a story or poem or something of the sort and hand it into our Librarian, who just happened to be my favorite teacher. (He still is!) He was going to call you down to the library if you made any of the places in all the grades. If you won 1st, 2nd or 3rd place from all grades, you were invited to have ice cream as well as win a notebook, a poster and a certificate with your name and the number you placed. Being a child, I was only really motivated by the ice cream. So my friend and I decided to write something. My story was called How The Cheetah Got It's Spots. It was my theory of how a cheetah had spots. I don't know the name of her story because she never told me. She and I boasted about who would win. But when the day came when the Librarian was to announce the winners over the intercom, neither of us were called. We didn't win. But that didn't stop us from trying again the following year.
When the time came around in third grade for the contest, I wrote another story. I do not remember the name of that one, but I know that is was just as silly as the first. Although I didn't place once again, my mind whirled with ideas and creativity. The friend I had entered the contest with both years was fed up with not winning but I wasn't about to give up on something I loved just because I didn't win the first or second time. I wanted to keep going until I got it.
My perseverance didn't let me down the next year in fourth grade. That year I bestowed upon my librarian a story I had written that summer. a story that had started as a mere dream. I titled it The Cowgirl. It was about a girl who wanted to ride her horse in a race that was only for boys. In the end, she got to not only ride with the boys, but her uncle who owned the horse, gave it to her. I was called down in fourth grade. And I won 1st place. I had been so excited and happy that I cried. I still get tears in my eyes just thinking about it. Since I had won, I just wanted to write and write and write. But then I discovered this little thing called Writer's Block. I would get so aggravated when I couldn't come up with anything that I miss the due date for all stories the next year. It was not my victory that didn't allow me to produce another story, it was my mind. As hard as I put my mind to work, I just couldn't put anything in my head and make it stay there. The words that I thought were like slime. They just kept slipping away.
Finally sixth grade came around and I got some new ideas. One included a sequel to The Cowgirl. The Cowgirl Two was as good as the first. It was sloppy and rushed, but thankfully I had another story to present. This one was called Dear Mom. It was a story I had also written during the summer before sixth grade, just as a way to get out my confused feelings towards my birth mother. I wasn't sure if I should hand that one in, whether it was too much information about me or it was too personal. But I ended up giving it up, knowing that I wouldn't win. Boy, was I shocked when my name was called on the intercom with everyone else that had won. Not only was I just being called down, I was being told that I had won first place for Dear Mom, the story I hadn't intended for this year's contest. This time I didn't cry. I was too shocked to even think for that matter. I was told by my librarian that The Cowgirl 2 just needed a little work and Dear Mom was the best story he'd read in years. He even cried while he read it! It was one of the best days of my life!
Practice got me this far. And motivation. But practice was the biggest thing that helped. That year that I boasted, I should've known I wouldn't get it. Preaching won't get you anywhere unless you do as you said. I believe that because of my motivation, practice and perseverance I got where I wanted to be.
Practice doesn't equal perfect, it equals progress.
